In memory of Bruce Chilton
Those unhurried afternoons
we stood at our easels, muddying
canvas with paint from a dinner plate.
Schubert’s Trout Sonata on Radio 3.
Tea stone cold, we were more
Pete and Dud than Monet and Renoir,
barely exchanging a word while
the sun washed the room with light.
Occasionally, taken with the music,
he’d give voice to a note or phrase,
forgetting perhaps I was there.
There’d be a stop for a pipe; a pause
for lunch – always sandwiches and soup.
‘Could I trouble you for some mustard?’
A little cricket talk, perhaps, or something
about his motorcycle, some nuisance
with the carburettor, or a tie he had
his eye on in Jarrolds (‘But not at that price’).
As for the painting, there was never
a word of judgment, rarely praise.
We slogged on until we lost the light
or when he began to dip his brush in his tea.
Then at four – ‘Gosh, is that the time?
They’ll wonder where I’ve got to.
Thanks awfully for the soup. What was it?’
Then hat, scarf, coat, and he was gone.
